When The Night Changes
by blue.rose.spobette
Summary: A mysterious girl who, after a traumatic accident, has no memory of who she is - and she winds up on his door step. He saved her life, in more ways than one. Who would have thought?...That the tortured, reclusive, WWII veteran would have been the one to save a high society girl from herself? Spoby AU. Takes place in 1947.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **Whoa, the doc manager format is so different. Anyway. Here's how much I suck. I start another story without finishing the other ones. BUT, you may or may not be happy to know, I AM working on the next chapter of SCOM. Hooray! Finally some free time to write!_

_Anyway. This is kind of a different path than I'm used to, so bear with me as I find my footing. Believe it or not, the idea struck me today when I was listening to this song (ugh, when did One Direction actually start making good music?) and taking a bath. It started as a seed and just blossomed over the course of twenty minutes, and I landed here. I had to write it down. _

_Chapter two is already partway done. I hope you guys like it. Please review!_

_xoxo_

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><p><strong><span>WHEN THE NIGHT CHANGES<span>  
><strong>

Chasing her tonight, doubts are running 'round her head  
>He's waiting, hides behind his cigarette<br>Heart is beating loud, she doesn't want it to stop  
>Moving too fast, moon is lighting up her skin<br>She's falling, doesn't even know it yet  
>Having no regrets is all that she really wants<p>

We're only getting older baby  
>And I've been thinking about you lately<br>Does it ever drive you crazy  
>Just how fast the night changes<br>Everything that you've ever dreamed of  
>Disappearing when you wake up<br>But there's nothing to be afraid of  
>Even when the night changes<br>It will never change me and you

_**"Night Changes" - One Direction**_

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><p><span><strong>CHAPTER 1<strong>

_**Philadelphia – April 1947**_

_Frigid. _

It was the first word that came to mind as Spencer Hastings stood idly by the enormous bay window, watching as the darkening sky erupted with droves of snow. The day had started off as being rather mild, a negligible chill on the air but no clouds to speak of. But somehow, throughout the course of the evening, the sun had taken its unceremonious leave, turning the other cheek to Jack Frost and his kin. Cobalt had quickly contorted to slate gray, and before anybody had realized what was happening, the whiteout conditions had all but taken over.

She swirled the last gulp of champagne around in its flute, fighting to ignore the grandiose musical number blaring from the room down the hall, so loud that it echoed in the floorboards beneath her feet. She had never been much for parties, much less ones as unnecessarily ostentatious as this. But the diamond on her ring finger doubled as a silent leash, and wherever Wren went, she was meant to follow.

Her parents had been thrilled when he had requested her hand. When the Philadelphia Record rolled off the presses the following day, she found her own face staring up at her from the front page, an entire article boasting their engagement. Peter Hastings had submitted the announcement himself, and before Spencer had even thought through the immensity of its implications, the decision had been made for her.

If she were being honest, there were far worse suitors than Wren Kingston. He was heir to the Kingston Estate, a multi-million dollar corporation that had managed to weave its voracious grasp throughout most of New England, planting money trees on every available inch of vacant property and greedily reaping the benefits of its investments. One would be hard-pressed to walk a single block of downtown Philadelphia without passing at least one Kingston building.

Her friends were wildly envious of her impending climb up the social ladder. Cecilia Drake had practically wept at the sight of Spencer's engagement ring, blathering on about how she had never seen such a gem "in person," and how jewelry magazines did no justice to the sparkle of "_real_ diamonds."

All things considered, she knew she should have been grateful that he had found her to be worthy of sharing his fortune. At the very least, she should have felt some swell of pride or accomplishment.

But as she slid her fingers across the cool panes of glass before her, driving a trail through the frosty layer that had ensnared the coveted window surface into its clutches, she could not help but feel a sense of complete and utter detachment.

_Frigid. _

"Spencer! There you are!"

She turned abruptly, nearly losing the last of her drink, as Alison DiLaurentis strode briskly toward her. Though her friend's face was flushed pink from the festivities, the blond ringlets framing her cheeks still lay in immaculate coils, unperturbed by the hubbub.

"Where have you been? We've been looking everywhere. You missed the unveiling of the hotel model!"

The King Palace. It was Wren's pride and joy – his first, true, independent creation without the guiding hand of his father. He had been developing it for months, every iota of his heart and soul entrenched in its preparation. There was a distinct glimmer that danced across his eyes whenever he studied those sketches. It was rather endearing, but somehow, simultaneously maddening. Proud though Spencer was, she could not help but wonder why her fiancé shared more intimate gazes with loose leaves of drawing paper than he did with her.

"Somehow I doubt I was missed," she said, forcing a light-hearted smile to lift at the corners of her lips. Perhaps then she could succeed in passing it off as a joke, though she knew, in all the excitement, that Wren was unlikely to have noticed her absence.

Alison batted the claim away, like a pesky gnat buzzing around her face. "Don't be silly. Of course you were. You're the _fiancé_ of the guest of honor!"

There was that strange word that caused a phantom itch somewhere in the core of her heart. That odd, ceremonial phrase that felt more like a job description than a term of endearment.

She did not have time to let it settle. Alison had already strung Spencer's elbow through her own, guiding her back through the hallway and toward the ballroom.

"You should have seen it," she was gushing, "photographers everywhere, reporters shouting to be heard over the crowd, desperate to have their questions answered by _the_ Wren Kingston." She sighed dreamily. "You're so lucky."

Spencer smiled stiffly. Truth be told, the whole thing sounded atrociously uncomfortable. Besides, why should she be sorry she missed the opportunity to be dangled silently on his arm through torrents of interviews? That wasn't exactly what she had in mind for the evening. She couldn't bring herself to understand how, even to someone as superficial as Alison, that sounded anything remotely close to _enjoyable_. Then again, when it came to rubbing elbows with the wealthy, Alison wasn't difficult to please.

"I've been thinking about the wedding," Alison continued, scarcely breathing before surging forth. "Star lilies. Trust me. It's what Queen Elizabeth is using for her wedding. And, let's face it, after this marriage, you will be considered comparable royalty."

Spencer hated star lilies. "Sounds wonderful."

"And you simply must have your dress tailor made. One-of-a-kind. Something with a bustier, though. You don't want to look too flat on your wedding day."

Spencer looked at her chest area self-consciously, but before she had a chance to process the underlying insult behind Alison's well-intentioned advice, the blond had already moved onward.

"Top hats and tails would be ideal for the men, as well, because – "

Alison stopped speaking so suddenly that Spencer was sure she had spontaneously gone deaf when the peaceful silence graced her once more with its presence. It wasn't until she followed Alison's train of view that she understood.

There, in a dark, abandoned corner of the regal hallway, was Wren, entangled in the arms of a familiar brunette. A brunette with whom Spencer had shared a bedroom growing up. A brunette who had once coached her very reluctant younger sister through Cotillion. A brunette who should have been the_ last_ person to be caught in such a compromising position.

Before Spencer could shriek in outraged surprise, Alison had already clapped a hand over her mouth and dragged her away from the sight. The two lovers did not even flinch.

Her insides were on fire. It was a sense of contempt unlike any other she had ever experienced, but was different than most stories she had heard. Friends whose husbands had been caught with their hands up unfamiliar skirts…They always spoke of the shame and heartbreak that accompanied being deceived by the person they loved.

Spencer only felt fury. She knew her sister was self-absorbed at best, but to deliberately chase after the man she was supposed to marry? Melissa had accused Spencer of being jealous of her beauty and social standing their entire lives. And yet, here she was, making one, glaring notion abundantly clear: for once, Spencer had something that _Melissa_ wanted.

The two of them had some nerve, thinking they were capable of outsmarting her. Assuming she was too stupid to ever figure out their indiscretion. She deserved far more credit than that.

"Alison!" Spencer hissed once they were out of earshot, struggling to free her arm from her friend's talon-like grasp. "What are you doing? I want to know exactly what – "

"You can't say anything," Alison breathed, whipping Spencer around to face her. "You will regret it. Trust me."

Spencer impatiently pushed an invasive lock of hair from her face, vaguely aware of how her heart was pounding so ferociously she could feel it in her eardrums. "What are you talking about?"

Alison sighed with a rather condescending sort of patience, as though trying to explain a difficult concept to an inept child. "Lots of men do it. It isn't anything to worry yourself over."

Spencer scoffed in disbelief. "Isn't anything to _worry_ myself over?"

"Stop. Listen to me. Wren has money. Remember? Lots of money. Marrying him will be the best thing that ever happened to you. You understand that, don't you? You can't let a little thing like him kissing your sister ruin – "

"A _LITTLE THING_?" Spencer cried indignantly.

"If you call attention to this, you will only cause a scandal. Is that what your parents would want?"

And there it was. The argument that Alison had surely known would deflate Spencer's resolve. Though she and her parents often found themselves at odds, their reputation was something of immense importance to her. Her father had worked his fingers to the bone from a young age to build this life for her family. He had earned their place in the spotlight with nothing but a shabby monogrammed briefcase and a meager savings bond. Something like this could unravel the very thread with which he had stitched their livelihood.

"Better?" Alison said, a nigh undetectable air of triumph in her tone. Spencer nodded resolutely, but said nothing. "Good. Now compose yourself. You're behaving like a lunatic."

Spencer bit hard on the inside of her cheek to choke back her knee-jerk rebuke, simply consenting to nod mutely once more.

"All right. Let's go back to the party, shall we?"

It was amazing, really, how quickly Alison was capable of shifting gears. One minute she was all fire and brimstone, blue eyes flashing wildly like a puppet master losing grip on the strings; the next, giggling coquettishly behind the mesmerizing smile of her perfectly white teeth.

Nevertheless, Spencer allowed her to quietly guide her back into the ballroom, feeling as though she were going to be inexplicably sick.

The nausea lifted only when she spotted him – the one person who could somehow effortlessly mask all of her worries, if only for a short time. His long-practiced knack for cheering her up could not have come at a more opportune time.

"There's my beautiful little sister," he said affectionately, though she knew him well enough to detect the slight hint of jocularity in the statement. He, like her, was not fond of these pretentious events, and often resorted to playing a role to make the evening more enjoyable.

And, as she so frequently did in his presence, she smiled in spite of herself.

"I'm going to go get us some more champagne," Alison said pointedly, the curvature of her cocked eyebrow providing Spencer with one last warning. She knew that, ordinarily, Spencer told Jason everything. "I'll be right back."

She whisked herself away. For a moment, Spencer and Jason were left in blissful silence.

"You feel that?" he murmured out of the corner of his mouth, looking around surreptitiously. "Dare I say it – there's room to breathe again."

Spencer laughed outright at his joke, allowing her head to lilt quietly onto his shoulder. "You would not believe the night I've had."

"That depends. Are we comparing notes?"

She snickered into her hand once more, biting back what would have been a much louder laugh as someone passed. Jason smirked knowingly at her, pulling a face that mimicked the glare coming from the elderly lady near the refreshment table.

"I got you something today," he said, rifling through the pocket of his suit jacket. "A kind of engagement present, I guess you could say. But really it's more of a 'just because I kind of like you' present."

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly at his attempt to be flippant. "It wasn't necessary, Jason. Really."

At last he unearthed a long, rectangular case from his coat. Before she could continue to protest, he had already flipped the top open. Inside the crushed velvet lay a silver bracelet, sparkling beneath the lights of the chandelier hanging above, her name engraved in cursive print.

He looked a bit sheepish, clearing his throat as he took it upon himself to fasten it around her wrist in poignant silence. Jason was not one to express emotion openly, but she could see in his thoughtful, downcast eyes that this gift entailed something much more meaningful than he was letting on.

"To remind you where you come from," he said quietly, giving her hand an affectionate squeeze.

She did not know what to say. The corners of her eyes stung with saline, and her throat felt suddenly tight.

"Thank you."

The music drifted off once more, and suddenly the crowd was applauding thunderously and turning back toward the grand staircase. She followed their attention to see Wren standing at the top of the steps, grinning victoriously from ear to ear. He was going to make another speech.

The feeling of sour milk settling in the pit of her stomach returned. And before Jason could notice, she ducked quietly out of the room and headed purposefully for the front doors.

Upon breaking free of the building that had done nothing but suffocate her all evening, she at once felt a sense of relief. It was short-lived, however, as the weather had taken a turn for the worst and immediately ensnared her in its merciless undertow. The snowfall had increased ten fold, blinding her to what lay so little as five feet ahead. It came down like pins and needles, prodding ceaselessly at the sensitive skin of her exposed arms, calling each and every hair follicle to stand attentively. She vowed to herself to ignore the way the wind whipped at her face, chapping her cheeks and lips, rendering her nose numb to its cruelty, as she rounded the corner and ducked through the alley she knew would provide a short cut to the main road. There she knew she could find Wren's driver, who would be more than happy to escort her home if she claimed to have fallen ill.

She was almost there – almost home free – when three figures emerged from the shadows, faces cloaked in darkness.

"That's Wren Kingston's whore, isn't it?" one of them said.

"Sure is," the second replied gruffly. "Talk about hitting the jackpot."

A flood of ice erupted in her veins that had nothing to do with the weather as they surrounded her.

"What are you doing wandering out here all alone, baby?"

"Not very wise to go tramping about without your _fiancé_."

He said it with such vindictive mockery that it was like being slapped in the face. If she hadn't hated that word before, she certainly did now.

"Take what you want," she said, doing her damnedest to mask the tremor in her throat. "Please. I don't want any trouble."

The strange men laughed in a macabre chorus, sending another shiver tickling down her spine.

"Check out that rock on her finger," one of them declared. She jumped, startled, as another immediately grabbed her hand to survey the ring.

"You get tired holding that thing up all day, sweetie?" the second cooed. They all guffawed in unison once more.

"Take it," she breathed, ripping it from her finger without ceremony and tossing it to the pavement. "Just let me go."

"What a fancy bracelet," the shortest mocked, brushing his hand down her arm and to her wrist. "That must be worth a pretty penny."

"Not that," she begged, pulling her arm out of his grasp and holding it protectively to her body. "Please. Anything else. Not that."

Their voices began to echo around her as they closed in, like a cadence carried by the snowstorm swirling around them in an all-consuming vortex.

"Aw, it's a _special_ gift."

"How precious."

"Anything else," she repeated fervently. "Anything but that."

"Well, if she really _means_ anything else…"

A hand on her backside. Fingers trailing across her collarbone. A body pressing into hers. Each time she leapt away from the unwelcome advances, another was waiting in her path.

She tried to step backwards. Her feet gave out from under her and she landed hard on her back, her head swimming with stars. She could feel the tears pooling in her eyes even as her consciousness gave way. Her body was frozen, in every sense of the word. Soon, she would not be able to feel anything…and she could not welcome the feeling soon enough, vaguely aware of how her limbs had gone numb, how the moisture that spilled down her cheeks turned to ice before the drop-off of her chin. How everything around her had gotten so very cold, so fast…

_Frigid. _

The blackness overtook her.

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><p><strong>CONT'D<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:** Here's the next chapter. Told you it was almost done!_

_And yes, to answer a reviewer's question, I will also be updating A Woman Like That soon. I have a bit of a break between jobs right now, and I'm hoping to use more of my free time to write. _

_So, I just feel the need to mention this - this story is requiring immense amounts of research, lol. I'm trying to stay true to the era, vocabulary, etc. I've looked up at least a dozen things so far, including facts about Queen Elizabeth's wedding, the snow storm in Philly at the end of April 1947, the name of the newspaper in Philly at the time, the battle of Dresden, blah blah blah. Appreciate my dedication! Haha._

_PLEASE review. It gives me the warm fuzzies inside._

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><p><span><strong>CHAPTER 2<strong>

_**Outlying Wilderness of the Poconos**_

"The cold front continues to move through the northeast, forcing several roads and railway stations to close across the greater New England area. Hunker down, folks. This could be a while."

Caleb snorted into his coffee derisively. "If I had a penny for every time a townie weather man predicted total winter shutdown, I'd be a millionaire."

Toby chuckled, stretching across the end table to cut the power on the radio. "If only they had stocks for that."

It was nearing dawn in the rural outskirts of the mountains, bringing the wilderness to life outside. A steady thrum of mourning doves rode the wind like a symphony, one of nature's many untouched wake-up calls. Through the living room window, Toby could see a doe and a fawn grazing some distance away from his house, unperturbed by the light of the fire blazing in his hearth.

The isolation would likely drive an average man to psychosis, but Toby relished the privacy. He had a torrid relationship with the big city, for reasons even he did not quite understand. Having grown up amidst the unrelenting chaos of Philadelphia, he somehow found that he was much more at home in the wild. Perhaps it said something about the untamed temperament of his soul, or the endless boundaries of his heart. Something flowery like that, maybe – the sort of thing he might have read about in Walt Whitman poems, an anthology of which sat on a bookshelf beside the mantle, collecting dust. It was the kind of comparison his mother would have made, had she still been alive.

After all that he had been through and all of the _noise_ that had deafened his thoughts for so long, somewhere quiet had felt like a good place to start over.

"We should probably get going," Caleb said despondently, taking one last drag of his coffee and stretching. "Those trees won't chop themselves down."

Toby chuckled. "We could always leave the saw out there and see what happens."

"Haha, very funny." Caleb was already pulling his wool cap down over his ears and tying a scarf around his face before Toby had even dredged up the motivation to vacate the comfort of his chair.

"Let's take the day off," Toby decided lazily, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. "Play cards or something."

Caleb sighed, looking at him sidelong between the many layers of fabric protecting his face. He pulled at the lip of the scarf enough to make his voice heard. "Cavanaugh's Lumber is your company. You're the boss. But let me remind you that last time we talked ourselves out of a day of work, you didn't let me live it down for weeks. As if it was my fault, and my fault alone."

Toby pulled a face. He remembered that day vividly. They had lost out on a lot of potential profit that week by playing hooky. And, to save face for his own dignity, he had needled Caleb about not keeping him in line. It had not been one of his prouder moments, because he was, for all intents and purposes, a diligent, hard worker. Taking time off was not in his repertoire, as much as he wished it were some days. A valuable yet irksome souvenir from his time in the Air Force.

With a reluctant grunt he heaved himself out of the armchair, layering up for the trek outdoors. Caleb fumbled with his empty coffee mug at the counter patiently, his canvas-covered thumbs idly tracing the elk design as he looked around the room.

"City men been by lately?" he asked.

Toby grumbled an expletive under his breath, suddenly finding that he was lacing his boots with far more hostility than usual. "Every Friday like clockwork. They bring more and more paperwork every time, as if more figures and graphs are going to change my mind."

"So, you're not selling?"

The elder looked up from his task, glaring upon Caleb with disbelieving eyes.

"You say that like you're disappointed."

"No," Caleb amended quickly. "That's not what I meant. It's just…you know…Hanna. She likes the sight of those numbers sometimes. I think she's been dropping hints about selling our share. She's a city girl, you know, born and bred. She's a nurse – she thrives on 'busy.' I don't think she ever considered we might live out here long term. Commuting to the hospital is hard for her."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Toby stared down his friend until the younger looked away in unspoken surrender.

"But I like it out here. I've had enough of the city for one lifetime. At least now I can hear myself think."

That was that. Toby had known Caleb for long enough that he could sense an honest concession when there was one. The idea was tabled – at least for now.

He felt a little guilty at the prospect of pressuring Caleb to stick around. It wasn't fair, really, to expect anybody to love the job the way that Toby did. What they did was hard, strenuous labor. And it wasn't as though Caleb did not do his fair share of the work. Not at all. But it certainly did not go unnoticed by Toby that logging required a great deal more effort for his companion than it did for himself. And Caleb was really handy with all of the newfangled electronics. There was surely some cushy office job out there that would be much more suited to his strengths.

But he could not help being selfish, despite how deeply the sentiment pained him. Toby hadn't come home to much after his outfit's final tour alongside the RAF at Dresden. The whole ordeal had screwed with him, and he had spent the better part of the past two years pushing it to some distant part in the deepest recesses of his mind so as not to let it overtake him. And if it weren't for Caleb's daily company, he would have likely succumbed to the horrific memories long ago. Memories of fire, and gunpowder, and the stench of burning flesh…

"Are you actually going to walk in those, or are you expecting me to know how to perform an emergency amputation?"

Caleb's voice drew him back to Earth, as it so often did. The shadow retreated back to its cave for the time being, and Toby sent a rude hand gesture in Caleb's direction. The younger chuckled amicably. Toby wouldn't confess it aloud, but his friend had been right – he couldn't feel a damn thing with his shoes tied so tight. He discreetly loosened up the laces.

There was nothing more peaceful than the quiet stillness of the forest at sunrise. Echoes of wildlife danced around them, punctuated only by the sound of their boots crunching through the snow.

They parted ways without incident. The routine was drilled so deeply into their way of being that it was not at all out of the ordinary. It was choreographed number – a tried-and-true tango – a reliable waltz. Caleb meandered toward the east, where he had left off the day before, and Toby weaved through the trees to the west.

The crisp fanfare of his footfalls preceded each subsequent step, crackling in the open spaces between the oaks. It was not sufficient, however, to frighten the animals in close proximity – either they were accustomed to his morning walks, or they were simply confident enough about whose home the forest truly was. Whatever the reason, Toby had always found himself humbled by just how little his presence mattered way out here. In the city, where man ruled the roost, it was an entirely different ballpark.

This was not his land as much as it was theirs. And in this epitomic case of symbiosis, he was perfectly all right with that.

He was readying his gear when he heard it. Foreign and unmistakable, floating in with the breeze that hailed from the direction of the river – a human moan. It was actually enough to make the birds pause with momentary uncertainty.

"Hello?" he called timidly, feeling rather foolish. What were the odds, really, that he would come across anybody else out here? Surely the noise had simply been a dying animal – something in pain, creating a sound atypical of its norm.

He crept past the frozen tributary, following the water's excursion through the trees, pulling his scarf more tightly around his mouth to block the sharp blade of the cold. He and Caleb would probably end up needing to cut their work short to avoid frostbite. No amount of money was worth losing his fingers. They were, after all, the tools to his livelihood.

There. Again. Like the sound of someone whimpering. He quickened his pace, certain now that he had not imagined it, despite how odd the phenomenon still seemed. They were far enough off the beaten path of civilization to deter any sort of visitation. Aside from the occasional ambitious hiker that had started from the campgrounds miles down the road, coming across _anyone_ other than Caleb or Hanna was virtually unheard of.

As he approached the river's edge, he stopped short. Had he not been so attuned to the terrain, he could have missed it. But there it was – the distinct form of a naked woman entangled in the brush, cuts and bruises darkening what had once assuredly been untarnished porcelain skin.

"Oh, God," he breathed, breaking into a run. Without really thinking about it, he was shouting for Caleb with reckless abandon, hollering for help.

He began his descent, nearly losing his footing as he traversed down the valley. With practiced precision he flipped himself in the other direction, digging the steel toes of his boots into the hillside for a better grip.

She did not seem to sense his arrival. As he got closer, he noticed the hypothermic discoloration of her flesh. Early stages, though – she could not have been out here more than half an hour.

A pained cry erupted from the depths of her diaphragm, a feral, wild sound that was not entirely out of place. Suddenly he was not climbing down a snow-covered slope, but a mountain of ash and rubble, carnage and gore smeared malevolently across a sea of dead, starving grass, his best friend's anguished sobs branding themselves in his brain…

One ill-placed step was enough to pull him back, and he shot out his hands to grasp at the steep hillside once more, the echoes of Dresden tumbling down to the river and out of earshot.

At long last he reached her, instinctively pulling off any of his own layers he could get his hands on. Within moments she was wrapped in his coat, flannel, and scarf, and the adrenaline momentarily masked the severity of the cold tearing across his sensitive layers of skin.

"It's okay, it's okay," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "I've got you. You're going to be okay."

"Toby!"

Caleb had reached the top of the drop-off. He had almost forgotten that he called for him.

"Down here!" Toby yelled, draping the woman over his shoulder. Caleb blanched at the sight.

"Jesus Christ Almighty…"

"Hanna," Toby decided suddenly. "Go get Hanna! Meet me at the house!"

Caleb did not need to be told twice. He had taken off in the opposite direction, boots crunching all the way back up the path.

The return climb was somehow easier to maneuver than the journey down, even despite the added weight. In what seemed like no time, he had reached level ground once more, shifting her into a bridal carry, racing back towards the house. He was more aware of the chill nipping at his bare arms, now, and there was no time to lose – for either of them.

He burst through the door, expending the last of the frozen breath from his lungs, delicately placing her on the couch. Hanna and Caleb were only seconds behind him.

"Is she conscious?" Hanna asked at once.

"Not – not really – "

"Is she breathing? How is her heart rate?"

He felt incredibly stupid all of a sudden. "Um – "

"Take the clothes off of her," Hanna declared brashly, already flattening out a blanket in front of the fire. She fluffed out another, standing close enough to the hearth to warm it, but not so close that it would catch.

Toby did as told, silently apologizing to the stranger on his couch for robbing her of her modesty once more. He hoped that, all things considered, she might find it in herself to understand.

"Bring her here," Hanna instructed. Toby dutifully carried her to the blanket already laid on the floor.

"Your clothes, now."

It was more his panic that left him surprised than the rational part of his brain. He remembered Hanna having explained this to him and Caleb time and time again, wanting to prepare them in the event that some freak accident occurred on the job.

But it didn't make it any less bizarre hearing it.

He did not question her. He dropped to the floor and made quick work of his boots, snow slacks, and t-shirt, opting to leave his skivvies on for some modicum of privacy. Knowing what was to come next, he gently gathered the woman in his arms, pulling her trembling frame against his, being (rather unimportantly) careful not to put her in any sort of compromising position.

If Caleb was baffled by his wife's methodology, he did not show it. Instead he had already begun to set water and linens to boil in the kitchen. Clearly he had been given some direction in the brief trek from their house to Toby's. It was more than Toby had been given, after all – and he could have used a moment of mental preparation before stripping down.

Hanna swaddled both of their bodies in the heated blanket, plopping unceremoniously behind them and massaging the woman's scalp. Despite his confusion, Toby knew better than to ask questions. He trusted Hanna to know what she was doing.

"Caleb? Towels?"

It was as if her request were timed perfectly. He was already bringing a bowl of rags to their side. Before he could even take a seat, Hanna had already pulled one out and draped it across the woman's neck and chest. The second, around her feet. The third, across her forehead.

"How is her heartbeat, Toby?"

He placed his fingers on the inside of her wrist, his panic receding with every responsive thump.

"It's evening," he said with a relieved exhale. This seemed to be enough to placate both Hanna and Caleb, as well, for they, too, expended a breath.

He moved to withdraw his hand, only to brush across the cold steel of something draped across her arm. Careful not to jostle her, he undid the clasp and pulled it into view.

"What is it?" Hanna asked, peering at the glistening metal.

"A bracelet."

"What does it say?" Caleb inquired, squinting his eyes to make out the curly cursive print in the singular light of the fire.

Toby turned the piece over in his hand, tilting it so that he could read it in the light of the flames.

"Spencer," Toby announced, and found that the name felt warm on his tongue. "It says 'Spencer'."

* * *

><p><strong>CONT'D<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:** If you're enjoying the story, please review. Feedback is the best inspiration._

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><p><span><strong>CHAPTER 3<strong>

It was quiet.

Usually that didn't mean much to him. He was used to the quiet.

But this was different. Foreign. It was not quiet in the way he was accustomed to. It was forlorn, and despondent, and rife with questions and confusion. It was raw and oddly sobering – an iron-wrought anchor that weighed upon the soul, providing involuntary insight to the bowels of reality.

The entire morning had passed by so quickly, so besieged with adrenaline that the whole ordeal felt like a blur – like an ancient, foggy memory buried so deep beneath the surface that it became difficult to dredge up. A vivid hallucination conjured by a dream-soaked imagination, cloaked in a surrealism that made it almost impossible to discern illusion from truth.

The sun had since passed the threshold of the horizon, creeping its way up the eastern sky somewhere behind the veil of storm clouds. The snow was coming down in a blinding maelstrom now, making it impossible for Toby to see more than a few feet past the frost clinging to the window.

He sat in his armchair by the fire, allowing the heat to cascade across his body. It was a small solace, considering the residual likeness of frostbite that had taken his insides hostage. There was something about watching a person nearly die of hypothermia that made it rather impossible to glean any comfort from even the warmest of embers.

He ran the pad of his calloused thumb across the embossing on the silver bracelet clutched in his fist, unable to help himself from wondering where it – and she – had come from. Who had given it to her, and when. What it symbolized. Whether, when she awoke, she would be grateful or indifferent to find that it had survived the journey.

_Spencer. _

"I made some more coffee," Caleb offered, his voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking any louder would disturb the mysterious guest resting in Toby's bedroom down the hall.

It was enough to shake him from his reverie. Feeling rather guilty for ignoring his friend, he peeled himself from the ambivalent warmth of his seat to join Caleb at the kitchen table, finding that he, too, was careful not to make too much noise as he pulled the chair out to sit. There was already a steaming mug in place for him.

"Thanks."

The two of them sipped in silence, not sure what else there was to say. There was a shadow of trepidation that had enveloped the room, leaving both of them anxious for answers.

It felt a bit odd, being so preoccupied with the fate of the woman from the river. She was a stranger, after all. But then again, by rushing to her aid the way that they had – the way that any decent human being would have done – they had rapidly surpassed the niceties of an ordinary introduction. It was hard to consider somebody a stranger in a case such as this. Her life had quite literally been placed in their hands, and there was a certain sense of accountability and attachment that formed as a result.

"Are you okay?" Caleb questioned after a few minutes.

"Sure," Toby said in a clipped tone he did not intend. "Why wouldn't I be?"

His friend's umber eyes were practically burning into Toby's skull, prodding past the protective wall he had constructed long ago to shut others out. Despite Toby's best efforts, however, Caleb had become increasingly skilled at navigating the fault lines over the years, slinking through like a tabby through a break in the fence.

Nevertheless, he did not call attention to Toby's obvious attempt to deflect the question.

"What happened out there?"

"I was just following the normal route. Then I heard her."

Caleb shook his head gently, as if trying to make sense of it all.

"Even the world's greatest hunter would have had trouble tracking something so fast in that bad of a storm," he said, a vague air of disbelief in his voice. "How did you know where find her?"

Toby took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair and finding that the tree line pattern on his cup was suddenly quite fascinating. The question hung in the air between them, awaiting an answer. But Toby couldn't even explain it to himself, much less anyone else.

"I don't know," he replied honestly. "I just…did."

He heard the door down the hall shut, the quiet "click" of the latch cutting off his train of thought. Hanna emerged after a moment, eyes downcast as she slowly made her way to sit at the table beside them.

"How is she?" Caleb asked, studying his wife's face for an answer before she even spoke.

She hesitated for a beat, taking much longer than necessary to latch the leather First Aid kit. "Stable. Her vitals are getting stronger."

"Well, that's good, right?" Toby asked, failing to see any reason for her to appear so dejected in light of this news.

Hanna inhaled deeply, the sound of which quivered all the way down to her lungs. Caleb slid his hand across the table to intertwine his fingers with her own, his brow furrowed in concern.

"Honey, what is it?"

"I – I saw bruises on the insides of her legs and arms. Grip patterns, like the ones I've seen on girls at the hospital…others who've been forced. So I did a more thorough exam. And there are multiple signs of – of…_trauma_."

"We already knew that, didn't we?" Toby said. "I mean, we all saw the bruises. We know someone hurt her."

There was a long pause, so thick he could have suffocated on it. Caleb ran a weary hand down the length of his face, as if suddenly exhausted, and Hanna's glistening eyes came up to slowly meet Toby's.

"I don't mean that kind of trauma, Toby," she said softly.

"I don't understand," Toby murmured, feeling pathetic for not comprehending what had them so upset.

Hanna's gaze flickered away once more, as if she could not bear to maintain eye contact.

"I mean sexual trauma."

It took him a moment – probably longer than it should have – before her words sank in, dazedly fluttering through the catacombs of his brain with all the patient agility of a feather, quietly landing in a blaze of recognition.

"What?" he demanded.

"Probably multiple assailants," she continued with conviction, like somehow if she continued talking it would lessen the blow of the horrifying reality that had settled like an open wound between them. "Some of the bruise marks on her arms are different sizes – "

"And they just _left_ her there?" Toby seethed, inexplicably aghast. "Did that to her, then threw her in the woods to _die_?"

He felt suddenly sick. Stranger or not, the very notion of the pain and terror she had endured only hours ago once more left his insides feeling cold.

"We need to get her to a hospital," he said brashly, standing up with such fervor that the feet of his chair groaned against the wood flooring.

"The main road is out," Hanna argued. "I heard it on the radio just before Caleb came to get me."

"We'll manage! This isn't the first snowstorm we've seen out here. Hell, this one is nothing compared to the one that – "

"The bridge is down, Toby," Caleb added calmly. "Avalanche took it out a couple hours ago."

"Well, whoever attacked her managed to get in and out without a problem," he countered, only distantly aware of the displaced venom that poisoned his voice. "Dumped her body at the river and made a squeaky clean getaway."

"We don't know when they left her – we have no idea if they even – "

"What the hell are supposed to do, then?" he growled, grounding his palms to the tabletop to steady his trembling frame.

Hanna and Caleb exchanged a brief glance, one that would be innocuous to a person who did not know them half as well as Toby did. He had witnessed enough of these looks, however, to understand that an entire conversation was taking place in the silence of their interaction.

"I dressed her in one of your shirts for now," Hanna began, wringing her fingers together in a nervous sort of way. "I'll bring by some of my clothes later today, so she has something more suitable to wear for…um…the rest of the time."

It took several uncomfortable seconds for her meaning to resonate. And when it did, he could not prevent the macabre laughter that burst past his vocal cords, a derisive barking noise that sounded almost inhuman. The two of them stared at him with something that resembled concerned pity, which only made him laugh harder.

"What, she's supposed to stay here?" he guffawed. "You must be joking."

Caleb sputtered like a fish out of water. "Toby – "

"Did you see her bracelet?" Toby demanded, only just remembering that it was still bunched in his fist. "This thing is worth more money than you and I have seen in the past year. This entire place is probably smaller than her closet."

He wasn't sure where the sudden hostility was stemming from, but it was coming to a boil fast – a shaken champagne bottle that had been uncorked. There was a fury emanating from every fiber of his being, unlike anything he had experienced in recent years. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, a rigorous drum line preceding a diabolical punch line.

His friends had not spoken. He wasn't sure if this made him feel better or worse.

"She comes from wealth, Caleb," he continued vehemently. "And what do I have to offer? A few bottles of beer and a bag of pork rinds? She'd probably rather I put her back where I found her."

"Enough," Caleb snapped at last, jumping to his feet with such brevity that his chair clattered to the floor behind him. His eyes were ablaze with unfamiliar intensity, so unprecedented that Toby was startled into silence. "That's _enough_."

Toby couldn't have even begun to interpret the source of this outburst, but Caleb surged forth, unfazed.

"I understand that you've gone through something that neither Hanna nor I could possibly fathom. You've seen some terrible things, Toby. But trying to shut out the world by being an asshole won't fix anything."

He was stupefied. His kneejerk reaction was to defend himself – to counter Caleb's irrational argument with some logical rebuke. But instead, he only felt a sharp searing sensation somewhere in the cavity of his ribcage, like pouring lemon juice into a paper cut.

"We will do what we can to help," Caleb continued, the venom in his voice tapering off little by little with every passing word. "But this is what has to happen. Until the roads clear and we can get her into the city and into a hospital, she is our responsibility. So be the person that I know you are – whether you see him or not – and take care of this poor woman who will probably wake up soon, frightened and confused. She doesn't need a soldier. She needs a friend."

His speech was punctuated with a silence so poignant that it weighed on Toby from all sides. He had always known that Caleb saw more of him than he was wont to let on. But having him poke at his vulnerable underbelly like this – lay everything out on the table to be dissected – made it difficult to breathe for a moment.

There was a part of him that wanted to argue. Maybe punch Caleb in the face for so unceremoniously crossing the proverbial line. But that was the part of him that locked things away to be dealt with later, resulting in a geyser effect that soon erupted beyond his control. It was a component of the wall he had built to keep things in and keep others out. And because he knew how dysfunctional it was – how unlike the _old_ him it was – the other part of him heard Caleb on some distant level, translating his words and letting them soak in.

"You're right," he said after a beat. "I'm sorry. I just have no idea how I can make any of this better for her."

"Just be there," Hanna murmured. "Let her know that she isn't alone. And that we will stop at nothing to get her home."

Another pause. This one was unlike the last, in that it lacked the earlier tension, replaced instead with a weary exhaustion on all of their parts. And then, as if they had rehearsed the entire scene without Toby's knowledge, Hanna and Caleb began to gather their belongings in perfect synchronicity.

"We'll be by later," Caleb offered, his usual gentleness having returned, as he picked up his coat. "Until then, just…try not to be so hard on yourself."

Toby nodded resolutely. Even if there were something else to say, he was in no mood to talk anymore. He did not walk them to the door, as he ordinarily would, finding that he wasn't quite able to make his feet move. He vaguely heard the latch "click" behind him, and in that disparaging instant, he found that he was alone once more.

It took him a minute to peel his soles from the floorboards, mindlessly trekking down the hall to his bedroom. There she lay, tucked beneath the covers, her expression somehow more at peace than he had seen it earlier. True slumber, after all, knew nothing of the madness of real life. Could not predict the Hell into which she would soon awake.

He felt a pit settle in his gut, sharp and painful, covered in barbs. The deceptive realm of dreamland had played the same cruel joke on him every night of the past few years, and he would not wish the trickery on his worst enemy. She would wake up, suddenly asphyxiated by the horrifying reality of what had happened, and for a moment she would watch her entire world come crashing down around her.

He pulled a chair up beside her bed, absentmindedly taking her hand in his. The metal of her bracelet still burned against his palm, red hot from the fury that had bled from his pores only minutes ago. It already seemed like such a distant memory – but the silver branding his flesh was a stark reminder of just how recently everything had transpired.

Careful not to disturb her, he wound the shimmering chain around her wrist, fastening the clasp and returning the keepsake to its rightful place. The minute he let go, he felt the keen chill of the shiver coiling around his spine.

He was too busy studying the name on the bracelet, committing the letters to memory, to notice that she had begun to stir. Only when he managed to tear his gaze away did he find those two russet pools gazing at him, eyes shimmering with quiet tears.

He wanted to say something, but the words got caught in his throat. Instead, she was the one who spoke first, her voice a gentle rasp that somehow reminded him of velvet and wine.

And he would never forget, as long as he lived, the first thing she ever said. Shock and confusion aside, it would brand itself immediately into the recesses of his mind, digging its roots into every fissure that lay untapped.

It was quiet, but it was unmistakable. Her lips parted, and in a single breath – like a relieved sigh – his name tumbled from the tip of her tongue.

"Toby."


End file.
